


Whispers

by Evenmoor



Series: Mistaken Identity [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Stargate - All Series, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:17:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenmoor/pseuds/Evenmoor
Summary: Methos, seeking something new and to maybe take a vacation from younger Immortals eager to take his head, has taken Dr. Jackson up on his offer to join the Stargate Program. His first assignment? The previously-Lost City of Atlantis.





	1. Something Old, Something New

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [Mistaken Identity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/822150/chapters/1558322), and I recommend reading that story before starting in on this one.

_Hear the ocean waves, my love_  
_Hear them breathe and sigh_  
_Feel their kiss upon the pier_  
_As we say goodbye_  
_Take the waves with you, my love_  
_As you sail the skies_  
_And however far you go_  
_List’ for their reprise_

How typically Ancient, thought Methos. Sappy, sentimental, and entirely impractical. Plus, whoever wrote this tripe back in the day was a total hack, even accounting for the loss in translation.

Suppressing a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window at the endless streaks of blue and white. Almost three weeks in hyperspace. If he weren’t so infernally bored, cooped up in this tin can, he’d never have even glanced at that ridiculous excuse for poetry.

 _I can’t believe I let Daniel Jackson talk me into this_ , he grumbled to himself. That archaeologist was astonishingly persuasive when he wanted to be. Though, to be fair, Methos had been looking for something new.

The first day aboard the ship hadn’t been so bad, if for no other reason than sheer novelty of the situation. No matter how many pictures he’d seen, there was just no comparison to looking out a window and seeing Planet Earth laid out before him.

Though he didn’t normally consider himself the sentimental sort, even he had been momentarily overcome with that sense of wonder as he looked at the beautiful blue sphere he had called home for five thousand years. All the feuds and petty squabbles of mortals and and Immortals alike seemed just so transitory all of a sudden.

Unfortunately, while USS _Daedalus_ may have been a marvel of engineering traveling at heretofore unimaginable speeds, even a ship the length of an aircraft carrier quickly became cramped once they broke orbit and shot into hyperspace. And Methos didn’t exactly have the run of the place, either, as a civilian passenger. Unsurprisingly, cabin fever set in rather quickly.

To help stave off utter insanity, he decided to get to know about the place he would shortly be calling home. Atlantis, the not-quite-as-lost-as-it-used-to-be city. Though, to judge by the mission reports, one might assume that the residents of said city had already succumbed to madness.

Nominally in charge of the Expedition was Richard Woolsey, a balding, middle-aged bureaucrat whose initial reports sounded like he was way in over his head before somehow finding some stable ground.

John Sheppard, Colonel, leading the military contingent. American, of course, and just as much a cowboy as an American would be expected to be. All that was missing was a Stetson.

Though, as a medical doctor, Methos’s own new boss was actually a terrifyingly young woman named Jennifer Keller, who didn’t even look old enough to drive, let alone lead the medical staff of a remote, hyper-advanced Ancient outpost.

Of course, Methos himself was over five thousand years old and regularly pulled off the “starving grad student” look. Who was he to judge?

So, here he was, reading poetry older than he was and so much more stale.

 _Oh, get over yourself, Old Man_ , an inner voice mocked him. Methos envisioned stuffing a sock into the source of that voice. The voice was unrepentant. Perhaps it was right to be, Methos (very privately, and very unwillingly) acknowledged.

After all, for the first time in a very long time (even by his standards), he was not automatically guaranteed to be the oldest person in the room. Though the Ancients, no matter how old they were, seemed not to have learned very much despite literally millions of years of civilization.

That annoying inner voice expressed a profound eyeroll, leaving Methos to ponder how an aspect of one’s imagination could roll nonexistent eyes.

 _The Ancients were human, too_ , huffed that aspect of himself, as if imparting some revelation that should have been totally obvious. Methos grumbled that his subconscious was definitely feeling far too smug that day and should probably shut up. Though his argumentative side subsided swiftly enough, the Immortal knew that it was far more amused than actually defeated.

He let his unfocused gaze drift back to the undefinable blue and white streaks of hyperspace. It should have alarmed him, the maudlin manner in which he had devolved lately. Arguing with his own subconscious was hardly new for him, but it didn’t use to argue back in such a distinct and coherent manner. It had come upon him gradually over the past few years.

It was probably Duncan MacLeod’s fault. Damn do-gooder Highlander and his damned moral compass. Practically infectious. If it hadn’t been for Duncan MacLeod, Methos would still be happy on his own in Paris, minding his own business and perfectly safe hiding among the very Watchers who were searching for him.

Those were the days.

He turned his attention back to the screen of the tablet in his hands and flicked his fingers across it. Amazing. The tablet itself was of Earth build, of course, but to his eyes many of the principles of its design and construction were of decidedly more… exotic origin. In a mere blink of an eye, the humans of Earth had stepped out into a larger universe, and not only adapted but _thrived_.

Such a device as unremarkable today as a tablet computer would a bare century ago have been awe-inspiringly advanced. (Methos was almost certainly the only Immortal left who had lived on Earth during the original Goa’uld occupation more than five thousand years ago, when such technology was commonplace, and even for him those memories were hazy.)

Now he had to deal with a conscience that wouldn’t shut up and an American military-led operation to other planets. Other galaxies. Because here he was, on the way to Used-to-be-Lost City of Atlantis. In the Pegasus Galaxy. On a _spaceship_.

He couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation, ignoring the brief glances he got from the other scattered crew and passengers in the room.

Methos, the man who had lived when the catapult was the height of engineering, was riding on a spaceship to another galaxy. Now, if only he could get the voice in his head to just shut up.


	2. Welcome to Atlantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos arrives at Atlantis and makes a new friend.

_Atlantis_.

Methos caught himself inadvertently holding his breath, and he forced himself to breathe normally. He'd seen pictures of the city, of course, in the tutorial files he'd been given to familiarize himself with his new home during the seemingly-interminable voyage from the Milky Way to the Pegasus Galaxy.

Setting down his large duffel bag, Methos leaned against the balcony railing and breathed in the sight of the city of Atlantis. The pictures did not do it justice, not by a long shot.

The city dwarfed the aircraft carrier-sized _Daedalus_ , which floated peacefully in the water in the distance next to one of the massive piers; Atlantis's panorama of blue-green spires reached skywards with the central tower standing proud sentinel over the others. The Ancients may have been complete idiots, but their sense of beauty in architecture was remarkable.

"Quite a sight, isn't it? We've been here for over four years, and we _still_ haven't explored it all," remarked a cheerful voice.

Methos broke off his contemplation of the city. The voice belonged to a man, probably in his late 30s or maybe early 40s, wearing the dark gray and black uniform of the Atlantis military forces, the American flag patch on his left shoulder a splash of color. While not exceptionally tall, he was strongly-built; short dark brown hair framed an open, friendly face and a pair of bright blue eyes. He was also eerily familiar to Methos. Somehow.

 _Lorne_ , that inner voice supplied helpfully. _He used to lead a Gate team at the SGC before he came here._

"New guy, right? Come on. I'll hook you up with quarters and all that jazz." The American, Lorne, gestured for Methos to follow him.

A little bemused, Methos grabbed up his heavy duffel and swung it over his shoulder.

"Isn't that something a little below your pay grade?" he asked curiously as he followed Lorne back inside. "I thought you would have minions for such trivial tasks."

"Hey, I resemble that remark," half-muttered a passing sandy-haired man wearing a Canadian flag patch.

The American cleared his throat, but clearly appeared more amused than annoyed at the comment.

"Ordinarily, sure. But things are a bit slow at the moment, and I like to get to know the folks who will more or less _literally_ be holding my life in their hands." _And the lives of my men_ was left unsaid, but heavily implied.

"Fair enough," Methos conceded. "My full medical qualifications are in my file, which no doubt _Daedalus_ has transferred to Atlantis's database already. Though perhaps you'd be more interested to know that I was recruited to this program personally by Doctor Daniel Jackson."

To Methos's surprise, Lorne actually burst out laughing.

"Oh, God. Dr. Jackson? Really?" He shook his head at some inside joke. "You have my deepest sympathy. That poor guy just magnetically attracts disaster. And coming from someone who works in Pegasus, that's saying something."

Considering that Methos's first encounter (more or less) with the Stargate Program's lead archaeologist/anthropologist came from a literal collision in a Colorado Springs cafe (and all the sheer insanity that followed), he was _not_ about to argue the point.

"Yes, I did notice that about him," Methos noted blandly.

Lorne slid into an empty workstation and danced his fingers across the keyboard for a few moments.

"Okay, you said you're a medical doctor, so you need to be either near the infirmary or near a transporter…" the American muttered to himself as he examined a diagram of the city. "No… no… no… Oh, good. And there you go."

Lorne snatched up a tablet from the table; the screen displayed a map of the city with a location marked.

"Your new quarters. They're in the main tower, so you'll have to take the transporter to get to the infirmary. But the transporter is just down the hall, so you'll be fine. You'll need to see the quartermaster about bedding and a radio. If you decide you want different quarters, feel free to speak up."

"Offworld activation!" someone called. Lorne instantly sprang up from the workstation and hurried over to the sandy-haired Canadian, who was now seated at what was likely the nerve center for Stargate operations.

Methos stared through the large window towards the gate in the room below as the symbols around the ring lit up in sequence. Apparently, the Ancients in Pegasus liked their Stargates more high-tech in appearance, rather than the "ancient artifact" look back in the Milky Way. The end result was the same, though, with the eerily beautiful kill-you-in-an-instant unstable vortex bursting forth before being sucked back to form a stable wormhole.

"Any IDC?" Lorne asked the Canadian. There was a tenseness and anticipation in his voice. This was exactly the sort of feeling Methos had whenever he felt the Buzz of a nearby Immortal, no matter how much time he spent around that insane Highlander Duncan MacLeod.

"No, but we are receiving a transmission," the technician replied.

"Let's hear it."

" _Atlantis, this is Beckett, please respond immediately_ ," said a voice with distinct Scottish cadences.

Another Scotsman. Amazing. The universe just loved to mess with Methos, it seemed.

"Doc, it's good to hear fr-" Lorne began, but he was almost instantly cut off by Beckett.

 _"No time, Major Lorne. I need medical teams, combat engineers, any rescue personnel you can spare. There was a major earthquake here, and we need help badly,"_ Beckett blurted out. _"Ask Dr. Keller to prep the infirmary to receive casualties, many of them."_

"Got it, Doc. We'll be over there in no time," Lorne replied swiftly. He tapped his headset. "Mr. Woolsey and Colonel Sheppard to Stargate Ops immediately."

 _"Thank you, Major,"_ Beckett said. _"I got to go. I'll have someone meet the teams at the Gate."_

"Understood, Doc. Atlantis out."

The wormhole vanished abruptly as Lorne turned back to Methos.

"You got any experience in disaster relief?"

"More than I care to admit," the Immortal replied. And it wasn't even a lie.

"Fantastic. Congrats, you're here less than an hour, and you're already going on your first Gate mission. That has to be a record. Welcome to Atlantis."


	3. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos and the team from Atlantis arrive on another world to provide disaster relief services.

Part of Methos was impressed at how quickly the Atlantis Expedition jumped into action and mobilized to respond to the catastrophe. Another part, though, merely shrugged and pointed out that they were almost certainly used to this sort of thing, having been on their own in this galaxy for almost a year before they received any sort of relief themselves.

His own duffel of personal effects half-forgotten in the new quarters so helpfully appointed to him, a heavy backpack of first aid supplies had been shoved at him by a huge Marine with little more a rather terse _Here, you'll need this._

He was practically swarmed by all sorts of people as they filled the large atrium that served as the gate room on Atlantis. Methos earned a few curious but brief glances from one or two of the members of the Expedition, but everyone seemed mostly focused on the mission.

"Okay, folks, we don't know exactly what the situation is gonna be like when we get there, but remember to use your heads!" Major Lorne's voice projected easily throughout the room, drawing everyone's attention immediately. Standing next to him was a taller man, of similar coloring but slimmer build, whom Methos recognized as Colonel Sheppard, Atlantis's military leader. "Remember, there could still be aftershocks, and it won't do anyone any good if we end up having to rescue you, too."

"Alright, let's get this show on the road. Dial 'er up, Chuck!" ordered Sheppard.

Everyone took several steps back from the Gate as the symbols lit up in sequence. Despite himself, Methos could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He'd been through the Stargate, of course. During those two interminable years he played the opposable thumbs to the Goa'uld Tanith, and the time after he'd been freed by the Tok'ra, he'd traveled to many worlds in the Milky Way galaxy offering his services as a healer.

_But there was just some undefinable thrill of going on a_ _ **Gate mission**_ … Methos frowned slightly, recognizing the sentiment. Even as the surge of would-be rescuers stepped towards the open wormhole, he tried to quash the unnatural feeling of excitement. He was not like the rest of them, the too-eager mortals who defied the odds every time they ventured forth from the tiny blue marble called Earth.

And yet, here he was, marching towards the Stargate right alongside them.

_I'm_ _ **not**_ _some sort of altruist!_ With that determined (and forceful) self-reassurance, he stepped across the event horizon.

For a momentary eternity, it almost seemed like he could feel his molecules being pulled apart and shot at superluminal speeds through the tunnel in the space-time continuum that was the open wormhole.

And then he was there.

"There" being the middle of a thick forest with a canopy heavy enough to almost completely blot out the sun. The trees themselves were squat and fat, with huge trunks and enormously wide branches. The members of the rescue team who had arrived ahead of him were already streaming off in one direction, no doubt following whatever guide had been left to them by the Scotsman, Doctor Beckett.

What awaited them… was a mess.

The settlement had been built in a wide bowl of sorts. The heavy foliage above would have served as a natural roof, concealing the town from the sky. And the thick forest would make it nigh-impossible for the Wraith to dispatch their fighters through the Stargate.

An absolutely enormous tree had once stood in the center of the bowl. It now lay through many of the buildings that had been constructed beneath its cover. Much of the bowl was now open to a darkening sky.

The town itself was almost totally flattened by the quake. Methos had experienced earthquakes before; they were a grim reminder to Immortals that even _they_ were just gnats compared to the spectacular forces of nature. The quake might not have even been that powerful, but it was clear that the natives apparently lacked the cautious building standards common in the earthquake-prone regions on Earth.

A number of small fires had sprung up, likely caused when lamps fell and shattered during the quake. Despite the devastation, there were still many signs of life to be found: a number of natives were already shifting debris and forming bucket lines to handle the fires and start rescuing those trapped. Others, though, milled around in shock and confusion, not really comprehending what had happened.

In an open area near a crumbled statue, it appeared that an aid station was already being set up. As most of the other members of the Expedition scattered throughout the wrecked town to help where they could, Methos made his way to the man in the center of it all.

"Doctor Beckett, I presume," Methos addressed the man wearing a dark blue shirt and standard black pants who was currently bandaging the head wound on a small child (who clutched at the Atlantis uniform jacket draped around him).

"Aye, that's me," the doctor replied without looking up from what he was doing. "Set up wherever you have room. Ah, there you go, lad. That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

The little boy stared up at the smiling Scotsman and shook his head slightly. Methos set down his heavy pack and quickly inventoried what it contained. Most of it was pretty basic: gauze, bandages, antiseptic and the like. Of course, in a place where such things were unavailable (or even unheard of) they were absolutely invaluable.

A few moments later, the big Marine who had shoved the pack at Methos in the first place appeared with a large crate marked with the red cross.

"That's IVs, saline, antibiotics, sterilization kits, and some other things. Marie should be here with the rest of the supplies in a bit," the man said. He also pulled a bag off his belt and handed it over. "And here's some lollipops, too. It's not much, but it should help with the kids, at least."

"Oh, bless you, Sergeant," Beckett replied with a kind and grateful smile.

"No problem, Doc." The Marine glanced over his shoulder at the sound of someone retching nearby. It was actually one of the younger would-be rescuers from Atlantis, Methos realized. "Ah, I'll handle this. You got your hands full."

Indeed, Methos soon found more than enough to keep him busy as daylight vanished, treating everything from broken bones and concussions to burns and smoke inhalation. And Beckett, despite whatever physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion Methos was certain he was feeling, stayed right there, always ready with a cheerful smile or a comforting word. The other medical staff from Atlantis followed Beckett's direction without question, and Methos was more than happy to follow their lead.

Someone set up generators and lights, and the rescuers kept at it. Lorne and the rest of them kept on dropping off more victims for evaluation and treatment well into the night. Their faces blurred together as the night dragged on.

Methos could sense more than see the pending dawn by the time the American all but collapsed against the crumbled statue. The harsh electric area lighting did not favors to his complexion, which was practically gray.

"Gee, all those pretty words earlier about using your head, and now you look ready to pass out at my feet," Methos remarked with a smirk, offering Lorne a canteen.

"One of the perks of being near the top of the food chain," Lorne replied, his previously bright blue eyes now bleary with exhaustion (much like everyone else at this point). He took a deep swig from the canteen, leaning back with a sigh. "You know, I don't think we got the chance to be properly introduced. Major Evan Lorne, second in command of the military detachment on Atlantis."

The man said smiled wearily as he offered his hand. For some reason, Methos momentarily felt an urge to _salute_ him, which made no sense whatsoever to the old Immortal.

"Dr. Benjamin Adams, also known as 'the new guy,'" Methos replied as he shook the proffered hand.

"Don't worry. You'll become an old hand at all this stuff soon enough. And we can always use another doc in the infirmary," Lorne noted, his expression turning wry, though Methos felt the bleak undercurrent to the statement. Not that he could blame him, after all this.

"I'd imagine so, what with the space vampires, killer androids, psychopathic crystals…"

"Gee, you make it sound so _mundane_. All that stuff… well, it doesn't happen _every_ day, but when it rains here, it _pours_." The American grinned lightly, but Methos could see the Stepford smile for what it was. How many times had he seen it before over the millenia, the easy good humor and friendly attitude hiding a whole mess of pain? They'd only just met, and Methos wanted to put the guy in for medical leave. And the Scotsman behind them, Beckett, was even _worse_.

"I don't doubt it," Methos replied easily.


	4. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos finally finds some time to rest in the mess of the relief operations.

It had been just after 0900 on _Daedalus_ time when Methos had arrived on Atlantis, late afternoon in the city itself, and near dusk on the tree-infested disaster area (apparently designated M6R-299). He was practically suffering from whiplash from the time zone hopping.

Really, though, by the end of that very long night, Methos was much better off than most of the Atlantis personnel, since he hadn’t already been up all day before diving through a wormhole to perform physically and emotionally-taxing major rescue operations. While being Immortal did not, alas, mean a person didn’t have to eat or sleep, Methos still came out of the whole experience a lot fresher than his new compatriots, some of whom had to be practically carried to cots before _Daedalus_ herself arrived around dawn.

With the ship (and her astonishingly useful transporters) in position, they were finally able to rescue the last few survivors still buried under debris, and move the injured to treatment with both speed and ease.

Of course, what the survivors were going to do with their town and lives reduced to a pile of rubble… Happily, that was not Methos’s problem. He was more than pleased to let someone else worry about that. Instead, he made himself busy cleaning up the scattered detritus of medical treatment in the makeshift triage center and clinic, in between checking on the less-injured patients who had not been transported to either Atlantis or _Daedalus_ for further treatment.

Finally, even _he_ was pretty well wiped out and all but collapsed into a cot that had been recently vacated by a patient evacuated for more extensive treatment. His eyes slid shut almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

_Helpless. A prisoner in his own body. He’d promised himself that this would never happen again. He slammed against the barriers of his mind, struggling to free himself, but he might as well have been pounding against a wall of diamond._

_Fury. Fury and unrelenting fear as he clawed and scraped and hammered uselessly inside his head._

_The snake ignored his futile efforts as it marched his body down the corridor. That’s all he was. A body, a convenient set of legs and opposable thumbs. Except it was worse than that, because it could also flip through his mind, read his thoughts and his memories like a book. It could know everything he knew._

_Every secret, laid bare. And try as he might, he couldn’t even move his eyes of his own accord._

_Not again. **Not again!**_

_They reached the conference room. The door opened. The Goa’uld reach out and tossed in the grenade._

 

* * *

 

A hand touched his shoulder. Methos’s eyes snapped open. In an moment, his knife was in his hand and at the throat of… someone?

“What the--” the stranger choked. Methos blinked, coming back to himself. He instantly withdrew the knife, slipping it back into the sheath on his thigh.

“You’re not Carson,” the other man squeaked in apparent non-sequitur, his voice somewhat strained and a little strident. He had a somewhat chubby build and receding brown hair, and Methos realized that he actually recognized him from the files he’d read on the trip to Pegasus: Dr. Rodney McKay, the man in charge of the science teams on Atlantis.

“No, I’m not Carson,” Methos responded to the man’s earlier remark.

“You had a knife at my throat!” McKay’s expression turned swiftly indignant, though it was pretty obvious he was more than a little unnerved by the unfortunate experience.

“Yes, sorry about that.” The apology was actually far more genuine than normal for Methos. “Bad dream.”

“I’ll say. Who are you, anyway?” demanded the lead scientist.

“A man who was a Goa’uld host for two years after being kidnapped. Twice!” Well, kidnapped two and a _half_ times, really. But who was counting?

Surprisingly, the acerbic and snarky response actually set McKay back slightly.

“You still shouldn’t wave knives around at people,” he protested, somewhat more weakly.

“I wasn’t ‘waving’ the knife,” Methos pointed out logically; really, though, McKay had a point. There were no Immortals here trying to sneak up on him in the middle of the night to take his head. Unless one counted the Wraith, and Methos had no intention of actually coming into contact with one of them. He cleared his throat and gave a peace offering. “If you’re looking for Dr. Beckett, the last I saw him he was beaming up to _Daedalus_ with a very anxious pregnant woman who insisted that he and _only_ he would be the one to check on her and her baby.”

“Why would she do that?” McKay’s face screwed up in comical confusion, completely losing his original train of thought.

“Having never been a pregnant woman, I couldn’t even begin to answer your question. Maybe you should find one and ask her.”

Before the other man could come up with a response, another (more familiar voice) interrupted the conversation.

“Hey, McKay, you looking for Dr. Beckett?” It was Major Lorne, looking even more gray and haggard than Methos had seen him earlier. “He’s on _Daedalus_. I told him to get some rest after he checked up on that last patient of his. Told him I’d send Ronon up and sit on him if he didn’t.”

There was clearly some sort of history or story to be told there, to judge by the expression on McKay’s face.

“Yeah, that’d do it. I’ve, I’ve just got his meds, and I knew that everyone else was all running around trying to rescue people, and I knew he would probably need more, and he’s the last person to think of himself...” McKay shifted awkwardly, clearly embarrassed. Lorne acted like he didn’t notice.

“Know what you mean.” He clasped the other man lightly on the shoulder; McKay seemed slightly disconcerted by the comradely gesture and quickly excused himself.

Lorne turned an exhausted grin to Methos.

“Guess what, Doc? We’ve been relieved. We’re headed back to Atlantis.”

“Brilliant. Because this cot is possibly the most uncomfortable excuse for a bed I’ve ever slept in, and I’m counting bare rock in a cave!” Methos did not mention that his discomfort was more likely connected to that dream and what came after than the actual cot.


End file.
